We All Fall Down (20 page)

As Buddy held up his half-filled glass, he studied his father more closely than ever before, trying to see him as a stranger would see him. The word that leaped into his mind was:
ruin.
As if his father’s face, which he’d remembered as pink and lean and handsome, had fallen on hard times. Small veins were visible in his nose and cheeks, as if there had been tiny explosions under the surface of his flesh. More flesh had gathered under his eyes. His eyes were not only bloodshot but sore-looking, as if he’d been staring at the sun too long.

“You happy, Dad?” Buddy asked, the question startling him even as he spoke the words.

“What kind of question is that, Buddy?” he said, obviously taken by surprise.

“I just wondered.”
You don’t look happy.

“I don’t know whether we’re meant to be happy or sad all the time,” his father said. “I mean, it’s like taking your temperature just to see if you have a fever when there’s no need for it.”

He’s talking in circles, Buddy thought. Or maybe he’s right. Why do we always have to be either happy or sad? Why not just
be?

“Don’t you want to know how Mom is?” he asked, needing to lash out, say something,
do
something.

“I know how she is, Buddy,” he answered, sighing wearily. “Miserable. And I’m the one who made her miserable. Guess I’m miserable, too, sometimes.”

“Why, Dad? Why did all of this happen to make everybody so miserable?”

His father glanced around the room, caught the waiter’s eyes and signaled for this drink, mouthing the word
martini.
“Things happen,” he said, settling back in his
chair. “We don’t go looking for things to happen but they do.”

Buddy plunged: “Are you ever coming back home, Dad?” Not too big a plunge: if his father was miserable sometimes, maybe he wanted to come home.

Big silence. His father fingered the empty glass, looked around the room again. “Where’s that waiter?” he asked, irritated, drumming the table.

With sudden clarity, Buddy saw that his father needed another martini more than he needed to answer Buddy’s question. Or needed that drink before answering. He wondered about that old saying: like father, like son. Would he grow up to be like his father, still drinking, his face filled with the tiny flowers? Would he someday make Jane miserable and become miserable himself?

Giving up his search for the waiter, his father looked at him directly. “No, Buddy. I’m not coming back. I don’t even think your mother wants me back or would take me back. It’s like a broken window, Buddy, the glass shattered. You can’t fix it. You get a new window …”

These are not windows. Dad

That’s what Buddy wanted to say but he remained silent as he saw his father still angling to see if the waiter was approaching with his drink, fingering the empty wineglass, glancing into it to see if there might be a drop or two left then actually,
actually
raised it to his lips to drain away whatever dregs might be left.

He could not wait for this terrible luncheon to end.

Jane called Buddy from the pay telephone in the lobby of the hospital, eager to share the good news of Karen’s recovery. The telephone rang and rang.

Karen wasn’t completely recovered, of course. She had regained consciousness, had suffered no loss of locomotion
(the doctor’s word) aid was functioning normally (more doctor words) except for her inability to speak. Which was probably not physically originated (the psychiatrist’s words now) but a temporary condition. Seven, eight rings. She hoped Buddy’s lunch with his father went well. He had been excited about the invitation, like a little boy going to the circus with his daddy.

She was about to hang up when he answered. “Hello,” his voice dim, subdued. Was something wrong?

“Buddy,” she said. “How was lunch?”
Please say that lunch was fine, that you and your father had a good time.

“Okay,” he said, the word lacking in enthusiasm. Had the lunch gone wrong? She would have to deal with that later.

“Karen is out of her coma,” she said, unable to suppress her excitement. “I’m calling from the hospital—she’s going to be all right….”

Silence from Buddy. She was a bit angry that the lunch had not gone well and was spoiling her news about Karen.

“That’s great,” he said, the words booming with enthusiasm across the wires. Was he playacting? He sounded
too
enthusiastic, now, his voice, like, too loud, too high. “You must be happy. I mean, your parents must be walking on air.”

His voice still sounded fake. It must have been a terrible lunch. “There’s only one thing wrong,” she said, “She can’t speak. The doctor says it’s psychological. Listen, can we get together somewhere? Gan you come over to Burnside? We can get a Coke or something and you can tell me all about lunch with your father and I’ll tell you all about Karen.…”

“Sure, good,” he said, and his voice was again normal, the voice of the Buddy she knew and loved.

“Give me fifteen minutes and I’ll be there,” he said.

After all this time, the sound of his voice still thrilled her.

The Avenger could not believe his eyes.

There she was, Jane Jerome, his Jane, with one of the trashers. Standing beside him on the sidewalk, holding his hand. Looking up at the trasher as if nobody else in the world existed. Looking up at him with—what?—a tender expression on her face. A look of love.

The Avenger stood still. Stood still on the outside, that is. Inside, he was all movement and turmoil, his blood surging through his veins, his temples throbbing, his face growing hot, hotter, until he was afraid his cheeks would explode and pieces of his flesh would fly through the air and splatter the sides of buildings. At the same time he needed to go to the bathroom, desperately, afraid he would have an accident right here on Main Street in front of Dupont’s Drug Store. But the urge to go to the bathroom was replaced by the need to hide as they began crossing the street, heading in his direction. He had to get away, out of their sight. Spinning completely around, he searched for ways of escape, and saw the alley between Dupont’s and Burnside Video. He hurried into the alley, and hugged the wall. Saw Jane and the trasher pass by, still holding hands. He waited a moment, surrounded by the smell of garbage from a nearby barrel. Did not breathe, did not want to inhale the smell of garbage, did not want to bring the smell inside his body.

After a while, he stepped out of the alley. Did not see them anywhere. He walked slowly toward the video store, looked in the window, using his hand as a visor. Saw them. Jane and the trasher. Was he really the trasher? He squinted, studying the boy. Yes, he was one of them, all right. No doubt at all. The images of the trashers were
burned into his mind like with a branding iron. This trasher was not the one with the hammer and not the fat one who screamed loudest of all and not the thin ratty-looking one. But one of them. Good-looking but evil just the same. You can’t judge a book by its cover, his mother always said.

Did Jane know that he was one of the trashers? Maybe she didn’t know. Maybe he was fooling her. Or maybe she knew and didn’t care. He remembered something about a key, a rumor in the neighborhood that Jane had given the trashers the key to her house. He had not believed that for a minute. Now he wasn’t sure. Maybe she
had
given the key to one of the trashers, maybe to this boy in the store with her. At that moment, he saw the boy join her in one of the aisles. He saw Jane reach up and draw the boy into her arms. He saw her wrap her arms around him, saw her mashing her mouth against his, saw her tongue go into the trasher’s mouth. Revolted, grimacing, he could not take his eyes from them. How could she do such a thing? She should have known when she touched him—with her tongue! her tongue!—that he was one of the trashers. Even if he wasn’t a trasher, she should not be kissing him like that, like some animal.

It was at that moment that The Avenger began to hate Jane Jerome, hate her worse than even the trashers. She was not a nice person, No nice person would do what she was doing in that store with her mouth, her tongue. To a trasher.

Finally, he was able to tear his eyes away from that awful act, unable to look at her any longer, face twisted in agony as if his features would stay frozen like that forever, caught in a storm of emotions he could not suppress or subdue. Flashes before his eyes now. Of Vaughn Masterson’s exploding face when the bullet struck him. His grandfather’s body twisting in the air as he fell.

He ran. Across the street, dodging the cars, knowing that cars would not hit him because he was on a mission. As he reached the other side of the street, he continued running, his mind filled with visions. Visions of what he would do to her. He pictured her sitting in a chair, all tied up—her arms and legs—but her chest free. He did not want to tie down her chest, although he wasn’t sure why. He would not touch her after tying her down. He would play with her as if she were a toy. He would let something else touch her. Like a knife. He would let the knife do the touching like that old TV commercial, let your fingers do the walking. But the knife would do the walking, all over her body and her chest. She would be afraid. He would see in her eyes how she would be afraid. She deserved to be afraid. After what she had done with that trasher. She would be afraid of that knife and afraid of The Avenger.

After making her afraid, he would do to her what he had done to Vaughn Masterson and his grandfather.

First of all, of course, he would have to make his plans. Carefully and cleverly. Must draw her into his trap. Must strike at the right moment.

I am The Avenger, he cried silently, a cry of triumph that soared within him even as he stumbled along the street.

Eleven years old but smarter and wiser than ever before.

Jane had just turned into the corner of Arbor Drive when she encountered Amos Dalton waving to her from across the street.

She waved back distractedly, eager to get home and report Karen’s progress to her parents. In the week since Karen emerged from the coma, she had struggled to speak but had not uttered words that could be understood. Suddenly
this afternoon, she managed to say “Hello Jane” not clearly or distinctly and not without effort that bathed her face with perspiration. But saying the words clearly enough to be understood,
Hello Jane.
Wonderful. Buddy, too, would be impressed He still had not met her. The doctor insisted that only family members visit her during this precarious time.

Amos Dalton had stopped waving and was running toward her now, crossing the street, running awkwardly with three books pressed to his chest.

“You’ve got to come with me, Jane,” he said. “It’s an emergency.”

“What kind of “n emergency?” she asked. Kids were always exaggerating and Amos Dalton, middle-aged kid in his laced-up shoes, was probably no exception.

“I can’t tell you—you’ve got to see for yourself.” His chin trembled, his lips were bluish. “It’s a matter of life and death.”

She hesitated, in a hurry to be on her way but wanting to do the right thing if it
was
an emergency.

“Please,” he begged. As he shifted his position the books spilled to the sidewalk, “You’ve got to come.” Not moving to pick up the books. Amos Dalton: book lover, not picking up his books. He must be desperate. Turning away, he took a few tentative steps, calling over his shoulder: “Come on…

“Hey, how about your books?”

“The heck with them,” he said, hurrying away. “Please come …”

“God, this must really be important,” she muttered, picking up the books as she began to follow him. Two paperbacks, Stephen King kind of books with gruesome covers plus a copy of
The Adventures of Tom Sawyer.

“Where are we going?” Jane called as Amos Dalton stretched the distance between them.

“Not far. But we’ve got to hurry.”

At the corner of Arbor Lane and Vista Drive, Amos Dalton gave her another quick over-the-shoulder glance and plunged into the overgrown pass and shrubs of an empty lot. The tall grass almost hid a sign: LAND
FOR
SALE. She barely saw Amos Dalton’s head above the wild growth.

Stopping at the edge of the lot, she called: “I’m not going in there unless you tell me what’s going on….”

Amos Dalton paused, his face barely visible above the thick undergrowth. “It’s Artie.” His voice cracked a bit. “Something’s the matter with him.” Desperate suddenly.

“Why didn’t you say that in the first place?” she said, alarmed, remembering Artie’s nighttime terrors. She threw aside all caution along with her fear of snakes which might be crawling around underfoot and followed him into the abandoned lot. The grass, damp from a recent rain, brushed moistly against her legs, a slimy feeling that made her shudder with distaste.

Amos Dalton thrashed his way ahead; she almost lost sight of him. She dropped one of the books and said, “The hell with it,” walking unsteadily through the growth, like trying to walk in a foot of water. At length, the growth dwindled into a crooked path that led to an abandoned part of the neighborhood, woods where kids played their mysterious games. She saw a shed with sagging roof and boarded-up windows, set against a stand of pine trees. She had never explored this part of the neighborhood. This was a kids’ kind of spot, just the sort of place Artie and his brat pack would choose for their fun and games.

“I hope this isn’t a trick,” she called to Amos, a bit of anger diluting her fear for Artie’s safety.

“It’s not a trick,” Amos said, halting now and facing
her, perhaps ten feet away. Then pointing toward the shed: “He’s in there …”

She, too, stopped. The area was still. No birdcalls. No barking dogs. No wind rustling in the trees. “Artie,” she called. “Are you okay?”

No answer. She took a few steps forward.

“In here,” a voice reached her from the shed. A muffled voice, full of anguish, pain maybe. Could be Artie’s voice. “Hurry …” The word strangled, fading into a kind of gasp.

She ran instinctively toward the shed, knowing that if Artie was in trouble or some kind of danger, she simply could not turn away or abandon him. In her peripheral vision, she saw Amos Dalton scooting away, stumbling and tripping in his haste to leave, raising her suspicions but not compelling enough to make her change her course.